Read Online Cry for Passion by Robin Schone - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robin Schone
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told her.
Rose knew it. He knew she knew it.
He was the fourth such butler she had interviewed with a like mind.
Sniffing, the man tripped out of the drawing room.
Rose sat back in the too-soft, velvet-upholstered armchair and stared at blue damask.
Purple-blue eyes blackened by shadow stared up at her.
Is your husband here with you today? invaded the dead silence.
She squeezed her eyes closed to shut out the memory.
Jack Lodoun relentlessly pursued her. Look in the gallery, Mrs. Clarring. Do you see your husband?
No.
Why not?
He’s not in the courtroom.
Is he waiting outside? squeezed her throat. Shall we call him in?
No, he’s not outside.
Why isn’t your husband in the courtroom with you, Mrs. Clarring?
“Because in Jonathon’s eyes, I don’t exist,” Rose whispered, eyelids opening, dry eyes confronting the truth.
But she had not been able to say that, penned on all sides by strangers: the judge, the jury, the witnesses who gobbled up her every word.
She had not been able to say that there was no one to whom she could turn for comfort, save for the other members of the Men and Women’s Club. But they did not need her, either. They had found comfort in each other, one man for every woman, Rose the odd woman out.
Unbidden images blotted out the blue damask settee.
Red gold hair glinting. Ruby-tipped flesh glistening.
Rose had not known that a man’s sex cried for passion. But now she knew.
She knew how Jack Lodoun needed to be touched. She knew where Jack Lodoun needed to be touched.
She knew to what depths Jack Lodoun had penetrated the woman he loved.
Jealousy for the deceased woman—more bitter than bile—flooded her mouth.
Four distant bongs permeated the faint rumble of carriage wheels.
The Houses of Parliament, she remembered, sat at four in the evening.
Rose stood.
Her stomach growled.
She realized she had not eaten since snatching a coffee and a pastry before visiting the employment office.
Afternoon sunlight danced on polished oak.
Rose walked in reverse the steps she had walked seventeen hours earlier.
Bronze, cherry and brass gleamed in the shadows.
A lone black cloak and bonnet occupied the foyer.
There was no sign of the man to whom she had opened her door, and from whom she had then demanded he open his trousers. It was as if the night before had never happened.
Rose buttoned her cloak and settled the black bonnet over her upswept hair.
For long seconds she studied her reflection in the oval, bronze-framed mirror that hung above the foyer table.
Sunlight gilded her blond hair and blushed her pale cheeks.
She was, indeed, a woman who deserved to be loved.
The thought did not banish the shadows inside her reflection.
Unable to hold the dark gaze inside the mirror, Rose reached into the top drawer of the foyer table for her reticule, grabbed instead last evening’s edition of The Globe.
The drawing of a woman stared up at her, eyes black with lust.
Gentle blue eyes superimposed the charcoal eyes.
Did Jonathon look at the picture in the newspaper, she wondered, and see the innocent bride Rose had once been? Or did he see an adulteress, as Rose’s father had seen?
Gentle blue bled into purple-blue.
Rose saw the gray-wigged, black-robed man who had shredded her reputation. Rose saw the bare-headed, black-suited man who had eviscerated her emotions.
Rose saw the naked man—light dancing on sharp collarbones, shadow pinching beaded brown nipples—who had gifted her with his sexuality.
Jack Lodoun had not once condemned her for wanting to be a woman rather than a mother.
Forcefully Rose crumpled the newspaper: It crunched.
Puzzled, she smoothed out the wrinkled print.
Cookie crumbs pelted the naked cherry table.
A smile streaked through Rose: Giles, the butler, had not forsaken her.
Warmth permeated the chill foyer.
Later she would clean up, but not now when the sunshine beckoned.
Tapping the remaining crumbs out of the newspaper into the palm of her
Rose knew it. He knew she knew it.
He was the fourth such butler she had interviewed with a like mind.
Sniffing, the man tripped out of the drawing room.
Rose sat back in the too-soft, velvet-upholstered armchair and stared at blue damask.
Purple-blue eyes blackened by shadow stared up at her.
Is your husband here with you today? invaded the dead silence.
She squeezed her eyes closed to shut out the memory.
Jack Lodoun relentlessly pursued her. Look in the gallery, Mrs. Clarring. Do you see your husband?
No.
Why not?
He’s not in the courtroom.
Is he waiting outside? squeezed her throat. Shall we call him in?
No, he’s not outside.
Why isn’t your husband in the courtroom with you, Mrs. Clarring?
“Because in Jonathon’s eyes, I don’t exist,” Rose whispered, eyelids opening, dry eyes confronting the truth.
But she had not been able to say that, penned on all sides by strangers: the judge, the jury, the witnesses who gobbled up her every word.
She had not been able to say that there was no one to whom she could turn for comfort, save for the other members of the Men and Women’s Club. But they did not need her, either. They had found comfort in each other, one man for every woman, Rose the odd woman out.
Unbidden images blotted out the blue damask settee.
Red gold hair glinting. Ruby-tipped flesh glistening.
Rose had not known that a man’s sex cried for passion. But now she knew.
She knew how Jack Lodoun needed to be touched. She knew where Jack Lodoun needed to be touched.
She knew to what depths Jack Lodoun had penetrated the woman he loved.
Jealousy for the deceased woman—more bitter than bile—flooded her mouth.
Four distant bongs permeated the faint rumble of carriage wheels.
The Houses of Parliament, she remembered, sat at four in the evening.
Rose stood.
Her stomach growled.
She realized she had not eaten since snatching a coffee and a pastry before visiting the employment office.
Afternoon sunlight danced on polished oak.
Rose walked in reverse the steps she had walked seventeen hours earlier.
Bronze, cherry and brass gleamed in the shadows.
A lone black cloak and bonnet occupied the foyer.
There was no sign of the man to whom she had opened her door, and from whom she had then demanded he open his trousers. It was as if the night before had never happened.
Rose buttoned her cloak and settled the black bonnet over her upswept hair.
For long seconds she studied her reflection in the oval, bronze-framed mirror that hung above the foyer table.
Sunlight gilded her blond hair and blushed her pale cheeks.
She was, indeed, a woman who deserved to be loved.
The thought did not banish the shadows inside her reflection.
Unable to hold the dark gaze inside the mirror, Rose reached into the top drawer of the foyer table for her reticule, grabbed instead last evening’s edition of The Globe.
The drawing of a woman stared up at her, eyes black with lust.
Gentle blue eyes superimposed the charcoal eyes.
Did Jonathon look at the picture in the newspaper, she wondered, and see the innocent bride Rose had once been? Or did he see an adulteress, as Rose’s father had seen?
Gentle blue bled into purple-blue.
Rose saw the gray-wigged, black-robed man who had shredded her reputation. Rose saw the bare-headed, black-suited man who had eviscerated her emotions.
Rose saw the naked man—light dancing on sharp collarbones, shadow pinching beaded brown nipples—who had gifted her with his sexuality.
Jack Lodoun had not once condemned her for wanting to be a woman rather than a mother.
Forcefully Rose crumpled the newspaper: It crunched.
Puzzled, she smoothed out the wrinkled print.
Cookie crumbs pelted the naked cherry table.
A smile streaked through Rose: Giles, the butler, had not forsaken her.
Warmth permeated the chill foyer.
Later she would clean up, but not now when the sunshine beckoned.
Tapping the remaining crumbs out of the newspaper into the palm of her
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